


It's an Old Song but We're Gonna Sing it Again

by Spiderheart



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, anti-templar, circles are horrible okay, mention of using starvation as punishment, mentions of cruel and unusual punishment, not a lavellan bc i broke the game so i could be a circle elf mage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: There was a railroad line on the road to hell,There was a young man down on a bended knee,And brother, thus begins the tale!
Kudos: 5





	1. It's an Old Song

**Author's Note:**

> So, if the song title and summary lyrics didn't make it clear, I wrote this after listening to Hadestown, inspired by the phrasing and repetition in it.
> 
> Also, this features getting my favourite side quest, The One With The Asthmatic Mum.

Itzal felt more galvanised than he remembered being since the explosion—or ever, really—the minute the refugee elf described his wife’s symptoms. Sparks danced in his green eyes, and he straightened like a prince, his Antivan accent stronger as he put a hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke with all the warmth of that land:

‘Use willow-bark tea and a drop of this in the cup, while I go find your son.’ He offered a tiny phial of blown glass with an impossibly tiny cork. ‘Just a drop,’ he said, sternly. ‘Only one. I will be back soon.’

He turned, and went back to the others, who were in conversation with scouts and soldiers of the Inquisition. ‘We have to go,’ he said, and his change in tone got their attention. ‘Come on,’ he said, already turning. ‘We have to go.’

Varric was used to that tone, and that stride; though this elf was leggier and taller than any elf he’d met before—and he’d thought _Solas_ was tall. Andraste’s _tits_, this fucker was tall…

‘What did they feed you, in that circle in Ostwick?’

‘I had a patron,’ Itzal said, smiling faintly, even as he kept up his pace. ‘A crow, I was told. I never met him—except I did.’

‘Sounds like a tale,’ Varric said, smiling. ‘Care to tell it?’

‘Only if you promise to never write it down,’ Itzal said, with more life than Varric had seen, his eyes sparkling a different green than the mark, the green of Antivan emeralds, with the fire of lightning around the pupil, lightning like his magic, calling down the storm.

Varric was curious, wanted to ask why; but he didn’t get this far, have this many friends, without knowing when _not_ to write something down, when _not_ to use something for one of his stories. ‘Consider it promised. You have my word.’

And, with a little bow of his head in gratitude—or maybe just recalling the tale, putting the words together, Itzal’s voice lilted with a song that sounded old, like from before songs and stories and poetry were all separate things, back before, in the days when they were all the same thing.

_‘When I had six years, still had eyes as blue as innocence, a man came to the alienage._

_He was clear of skin, and sharp of smile; and he took us in with word of guile._

_He spoke of warmth in endless summer sun, _

_In the north, where the waters run_

_Clear and sweet as honey mild, and there still are plains of green grass wild_

_And he took us in_

_When I had six years, and the blight did come again, a man came to the alienage._

_He was soft of voice, and dark of hair; and he said up north, waiting there_

_Was a fate far better than our lives_

_And he took us in_

_When I had six years.’_

Varric felt chills, and noticed that Solas was listening carefully, sharp as he usually was dismissively distracted by his dreams.

‘You know what happened, then,’ said Itzal.

‘But you escaped,’ Cassandra said, her tone unreadable and harsh, as usual.

‘No,’ Itzal said.

‘Let him finish the song, Seeker,’ Varric admonished. Itzal shook his head.

‘I could not put that part to song,’ he said, ‘but let us skip a bit.

_‘When I had six years, and my steps with chains did drag, a black bird set the world ablaze._

_He was rose of hair, and sharp of smile; and he did them in with poison phial_—

I know, because I served them all the poisoned wine.

_And he saw a spark inside my eyes_

_And he took my hand_

_When I had six years, and my rage called down the storm, a black bird took me far away._

_He was soft of touch, and bright of eye; and he told me, ‘in circles your fate doth lie,_

_I will take you there; but don’t let them break your will._

_I will come again_

_When you have more years._

And so I had a patron,’ Itzal finished. ‘He came to me all through the years; he taught me how to sneak my freedom beneath and around and above the templars’ heavy hand; he taught me how to fly, how to fight, how to crow. I wanted to be like him, I wanted to come live with him, but he insisted I finish my studies, for he hadn’t the temperament to teach anyone magic, and it was not safe for a crow to have a child about. Safer to teach me how to fight the circle’s chains, invisible though they are, and take care of me with gold and gifts and influence.’ Itzal went quiet for a moment. ‘I think the reason Ostwick was so safe, so calm, was because of him. I think I know who he was, but I can never say.’ He smiled a little ruefully. ‘Someday I’ll finish the song.’

‘Where did you learn that melody?’ Solas asked.

‘Oh, it’s an old melody from the alienage, it’s the one you tell stories to,’ Itzal said, shrugging. ‘I’ve known it since I was a child, everyone knows it.’


	2. I Know Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because he's me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i spell 'okae' like that for the same reason GRRM spells it 'ser'. It's just a little thing to make it feel more like a fantasy world. 'okae' is a dwarf word, and entered the lexicon through that avenue (that, yes, is cribbed from Discworld).

_You’re going to meet people that aren’t going to laugh at jokes, or think decisive action means you’re humourless, or think admitting you don’t know is unwise. Learn to figure out which people are which quickly, little shadow, because it could mean your life._

The advice had never seemed more like Glimmer _knew_ than when Itzal first walked into Redcliffe Village, and saw the statue of his patron. It could be no other elf, Itzal knew Glimmer’s face better than his own. He’d never breathed a word of this, of his past. He didn’t even like dogs!

Yet there he was, with a mabari hound, and a plaque saying he’d been the one to save Redcliffe village. Itzal didn’t feel comforted by that fact, only further perturbed. _Had_ he been chosen, after all? But he wasn’t even sure if he _believed_ in the Maker!

Did Glimmer, he wondered, realising he’d never really asked, or been told. He knew his patron for a cynical man, though with a kind of optimism that counterbalanced it, made him seem truly wise, instead of merely dissipated.

‘You okae?’ Varric asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Maybe I have.’ Itzal said, dazed. ‘I… Varric,’ he said, in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard. ‘I know him.’

Varric looked at the statue. ‘You knew him?’

‘I know him, present tense,’ Itzal murmured. ‘I… my patron….’

‘Well shit,’ Varric said. ‘Guess it runs in the family, then.’

‘I don’t… I don’t understand,’ Itzal said, feeling like his world was collapsing in on him and also blowing impossibly wide at the same time. ‘Was it… I don’t…’

‘My dear, are you well?’ The Iron Lady hadn’t quite heard him, having been in conversation with the Iron Bull, a little ways away, but she noticed how he stumbled back as though he’d been struck.

‘I… I don’t know…’ Itzal said, feeling like he was falling farther and farther away from reality. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and everything seemed muffled. It wasn’t unlike the faintness he’d felt when being punished at Ostwick. They didn’t use the cane, but they did have The Chokey, where you were thrown, without supper, when the Templars thought you were ‘disturbing the peace’. Except… he’d eaten recently, he remembered Iron Bull cooking for them.

He went and sat down on one of the benches surrounding the statue, trying to breathe, and wishing his patron was here, wishing he knew how to write to him. He’d asked Leliana weeks ago, and she was still trying to find him. Where had he gone? Itzal knew crows disappeared, but Glimmer had never… but maybe Glimmer thought he, Itzal, was dead…

He’d been the Hero of Ferelden.

All of his advice being so useful _wasn’t a coincidence_.

Someone was offering him a cup of watered wine, and he took it, sipping carefully.

Iron Bull saw this in his men, at times; but he wasn’t sure what Itzal would have weathered, the elf had the pale, soft look of someone who didn’t really see much of violence; and his fighting style, while brutal and primally terrifying, kept him far away from the actual bodies. The south did lock up their mages in towers, but Bull wasn’t sure how harsh a life that could possibly be, being fed and housed and allowed to study magic, like that.

Still, he knew what he was looking at. _Something_ was hitting the kid hard, putting him miles away and possibly years back. He needed to be reminded where he was, _when_ he was. Quite possibly, _who_ he was. But Bull didn’t know him that well, not yet, and it seemed like nobody really knew him that well, either. This was a new company of people, nobody was really equipped to help.

Well, that had never stopped Bull before.

‘Hey, kid,’ he said, gently as he could. ‘Itzal,’ he said, after there was no response.

‘Mm?’ Itzal said, vague, automatically looking over, as one did when one heard one’s name, and Bull went on.

‘Look at me, what do you see?’ It was a simple thing to ask, but it helped get someone’s mind focused on something other than memory.

‘Is this a trick question?’ Itzal asked, sqinting an eye and raising the opposite brow. It was endearing, really. ‘I see an eyepatch, it’s strapped around one horn. I see scars… maybe from a blade, probably an… axe? Or a sword being used like an axe.’

‘Good guess,’ Bull said, impressed. ‘How’s a little mage like you know something like that?’

‘I was raised by two black birds,’ Itzal said.

‘Crows, you mean?’

Itzal smiled in what he hoped was a mysterious way. ‘Two black birds,’ he repeated. The word ‘crow’ was never used, and he knew why, but he also knew he would never tell anyone else. Plausible deniability was important, one of his first lessons with his patrons.

‘My dear, whatever happened?’ Vivienne asked. Bull wanted to tell her to leave it alone. Itzal obviously was still mixed about whether he liked her or not.

‘Nothing,’ he said, the refrain of anyone who meant, _I’m not going to tell **you**._ Itzal put on a smile and got to his feet. ‘Let’s go meet with the free mages.’


	3. Ala'ish

_‘There’s no way I’m answering “which mage in the Inquisition is best dressed?”. Not for all the gold in Orzammar.’_

‘It’s me, of course,’ Itzal said, from up ahead of them. He’d had one ear turned toward the conversation, always happy to listen in on everything, and interject when he had something to say. It was only eavesdropping if you weren’t an elf, Itzal thought; his alienage family did it all the time, any conversation you could hear, you could take part in. There were no secrets, in an alienage; there was no real need for them. This value put on things _not known by others_ would always frustrate Itzal. Why did the flat-ears insist on inventing such a ridiculous thing?

‘You?’ Dorian said, torn. ‘I mean—that’s very nice fabric, of course, but all you’ve done is tie it around your waist.’

‘I have a cute waist,’ Itzal said, with a smirk and a wiggle of his hips—which were a great deal wider than his waist. ‘_And_ it draws attention to my hips.’

‘Which are also very nice,’ Iron Bull put in.

Varric was holding back laughter as Dorian glared at him. ‘You started this, Sparkles.’

‘Is there a reason you want attention on your hips?’ Dorian asked.

‘Because they’re fuckable,’ Itzal said, ‘obviously.’

‘They are that,’ Bull agreed.

Itzal was looking over his shoulder at Dorian, teasingly; he’d always used sexuality to throw people off balance—it was something his patrons had taught him. Humans thought elves were sexually appealing; elves couldn’t really compare to humans in brute strength, but they _could_ weaponise that sexual appeal, and even the playing field. Most humans, even in the south, didn’t quite know what to do when you responded to a whip lash with ‘_Ouoh_! _Harder_, Daddy!’. Indeed, it was why Itzal had gotten out of most of his.

(His patrons had always made clear that _some_ humans reacted to their desires with violence—they had given him poison in a phial made of coral, that wouldn’t be detected by the Templar anti-metal spells. When the phial was unscrewed, it revealed a carefully-fitted sea-sponge, which allowed one to apply the poison to the skin with little contact; it caused sudden and uncontrollable pain and nausea, and left no other marks. Itzal had made use of it before, and it was why he flirted without fear.)

He’d been taken slave by Tevinter mages, albeit ones older and less attractive than Dorian; but Tevinter all the same. You’d think that would make him _less_ likely to flirt with Dorian; but, strange as it was, he liked flirting with him. Maybe it was the fact that Itzal could tell that peacocking was covering up very real fluster. So, Dorian was uncomfortable with his attraction to elves? Itzal couldn’t help the mischievous urge to poke at _that_.

Dorian swallowed around a dry throat; he’d heard stories about the debauched south, of course—they were a staple of the jokes in Tevinter. Truth be told, he had initially thought he wouldn’t _need_ the bottle to hide in, once here. After all, liking men was seen as normal, in Ferelden. They were in Ferelden, for the moment, and here was a man, literally _shaking his arse_ at Dorian, and _throwing come-hither glances_. Yet Dorian felt even _more_ like he couldn’t, like it was _dangerous._ Shouldn’t that just fall away, because this wasn’t, after all, Tevinter?

They were nicely interrupted by a bear, and it was several minutes of furious magic before it was dead, and Solas was skinning it. Solas always skinned the animals, he did it with an efficient dispassion that said he’d done it hundreds of times before.

Itzal was hanging upside-down from a tree branch, Bull encouraging and helping him to do curls, Itzal seeming to be almost overwhelmed by Bull’s praise. What were southern Circles _like_, Dorian wondered yet again. They seemed to be… bad. More than Dorian had ever thought, and that was saying something, as tales of the South were full of tales of how they treated their mages little better than the Qunari did.

‘My patron was a mage, but he fought with a two-handed war-scythe,’ Itzal was telling Bull.

‘Musta been a big guy.’

‘No, he was very small, even for an elf. Only five feet tall.’

Bull chuckled. ‘It’s always the short ones that want the big weapons.’ He helped Itzal down from the branch. ‘What about you? I notice you always ask me if I want all the big weapons.’

‘I prefer poison,’ Itzal said, shrugging, ‘but my patron didn’t grow up with that luxury. He made sure I did.’

‘You must regard him very highly,’ Solas said, bloody up to the shoulders and still working on the bear. ‘You speak of him quite often.’

Itzal watched from upwind and a safe distance, sitting on a nearby rock. ‘I’m not sorry,’ he said, a little defensively. ‘I do miss him. He’s part of my family. He took care of everyone from the rescue. Paid and protected their way to Antiva, and they’re all living in a big house now, big enough for a whole alienage. Not only that, but he visited me all through my years at the Circle, and made sure my parents could stay in contact, and he’s just… an ala’ish.’

Solas’ ear swivelled toward Itzal, as he said that.

‘Never heard that one before,’ Bull said. ‘Then again, only hung around Dalish before.’

‘It means…’ Itzal paused, face scrunched up as he struggled to translate it. ‘Not just “good”, but not so unique as “the best”, because it’s not a sense of competition. It’s just… someone who… really participates in actively improving the world, helping people just because. Not for glory, not for power, just because it’s the right thing to do—_and_ someone who is kind to children, respects their family, contributes to their alienage, just… you know, you say “oh, that one, he’s the first to give you the shirt off his back. A real ala’ish, that one. Good for marrying”.’ He thickened his alienage accent a bit, mimicking one of his aunties, who was very fond of speculative matchmaking for her nieces and nephews—whether they wanted it or not. ‘He says he’s from our alienage, but was taken so early he doesn’t remember his life before then; but that’s an old story,’ he added, bitterly, before turning sad again. ‘He was so surprised we were from Denerim. He says he’s trying to make up for it.’ His eyes pricked with tears. ‘You know, I don’t think he ever realises we already accept him as our own, no matter how much we tell him, or show him. No matter how much he did for my family, taking us out of poverty, making sure we could earn livelihoods, making sure we had enough to eat, even making sure little mages were protected and had books to learn magic from. He _never_ sent anyone else to the Circle, not after my shenathal—all the others my age, I mean.’

‘Don’t sound so sorry about it,’ Blackwall said, with his gruff compassion. ‘That gives people a reason to think they’re entitled to an apology for you teaching them something.’

Itzal was quiet a while, but he straightened up a bit, squared his shoulders, and went on.

‘People talk about him so differently, and I don’t like it. I don’t like that they only care that he stopped a Blight and did all this stuff, past tense. They talk about him like he’s _dead_. He’s not dead. He just moved North. He’s still _being_ a hero, he’s still doing heroic things. I can’t talk about some of them, but he’s… he’s…’ He gesticulated angrily, sparks crackling through his already-standing-up hair; he ran his fingers through it to gather them into a ball, rolling it smaller and smaller.

‘He’s an ala’ish,’ Blackwall said. ‘Simple as that.’

Itzal smiled, though his eyes were down on his lightning-ball. ‘Exactly.’

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [discord!](http://discord.gg/76nCqDh)


End file.
